


This I Know, Sugar

by detectivemeer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: from: Natashai wrote you a haikusteve and sam are cutethey both love punching nazishave sex alreadyfrom: SteveI’m blocking your number.





	This I Know, Sugar

“You’ve just gotta be gentle with it,” says Sam, packing in the basil seeds with a spade. “See?”

Sam’s hands are covered in dirt. Caught in the lines of his palm, his knuckles, the fine hairs on the back of his hand. Trapped under his short, squared nails. Sam’s hands are strong, capable, but soft-skinned, not calloused like Steve’s. They can shoot a semi-automatic upside down in the air and gently sift through soil, hiding new life under it.

“Remember,” Sam says, snapping Steve out of his reverie. His eyes land on Sam’s profile, the sweat on his upper lip, the streak of dirt across his cheek, the tips of his eyelashes invisible in the bright sunlight. “The seedlings aren’t gonna look like much, at first, but as it gets warmer it’ll all start to come in.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, smiling. “Thanks.”

-

“Hopeless.” Natasha steals his milkshake. Steve pokes dejectedly at his pie, lets her.

“What?”

“Hope-less,” she sounds out slowly and takes a slurp of his strawberries and cream. The waitress shimmies by, slipping their bill on the formica table-top. Natasha pulls Steve’s wallet out of her pocket, leaving a generous tip.

“Stop stealing my money.”

“Stop acting like I don’t let you feel the lifts.” She tosses his wallet at his head and he lets it bounce off his forehead, clatter onto the unused silverware. “Okay, now you’re making me sad.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, not sorry at all.

“Ask him out.”

“I can’t.”

She spitballs her straw wrapper, hitting him perfectly over the heart. “Ask him out.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he laments, shoving his dish away, and covers his face with his hands.

Natasha watches him, eyes soft but sharp; contradiction is her natural state of being. “You can,” she says, simple.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, ain’t that the fucking thing.” 

-

It all starts innocently enough, after Steve’s apartment is riddled with bullet holes, after his best friend moves to a new continent, after being on the run turns to tentative, conditional, temporary peace after _yet_ _another_ near world ending catastrophe. They don’t think about it, really. Sam goes home. And Steve follows.

At first he crashes on the couch, just a couple nights, until they figure out a new normal in this abnormal world. But then, when it came to a natural progression of things, and Steve stood, holding his duffel, dressed in one of two outfits he owned, still a little grimy, a little rough around the edges from their last battle and a couple years of fugitive living… Sam was making coffee, offering some for Steve’s thermos to go. Offering Steve breakfast before he left. Offering for Steve to stay, just a while longer.

So Steve sat at Sam’s counter, drank his coffee, ate his breakfast and watched him move with an undefinable, gentle perfection. And he stayed.

-

He moves into the guest room, still semi-permanent. Still just waiting to find the right place. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for the right excuse to extend his stay another week that will tumble into a month. The world is shockingly unthreatened for the time being, and part of his reintegration into society is his agreement to remain on standby. It’s deeply boring and so wonderful.

They’re doing movie night, sharing a blanket on the cough, popcorn wedged between their legs. Sam glows in the TV’s light, mindlessly eating. Steve can look in the dark without him noticing, curving along the lines of his face, his smile.

The characters on screen are in peril. Sam says, “You know, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you just move in officially? You already lucked out, found the perfect roommate. Just stay, you know, for now.” He doesn’t glance at Steve; Steve, whose heart is pounding, ears rushing like he’s underwater.

“Oh,” he says, everything inside him expanding. “Okay. I’d like that.” Say it. “Thanks,” he grins, grabs Sam’s shoulder with one hand, thumb rubbing his shirt. Sam smiles at him, nods, and turns back to the movie.

_Coward_. Yellow-bellied, lilylicking coward. Steve blows out a sigh, hot needles prickling his stomach. He is and he wishes he weren’t but he doesn’t know how not to be, now. Being brave is dangerous and unlike every other situation that calls for it, he doesn’t know if he can deal with the fallout of this one. They watch the movie. Steve starts keeping lists of their grocery needs and Sam starts teaching him how to tend to his garden in the front yard and everything else remains the same.

-

It’s hot out; that awful, invasive heat that weighs down on you, sinks into your clothes and skin and bones. Steve wipes sweat from his forehead and nose with the back of his hand, then rests his palms against his thighs, panting over the the weeds.

"Aw, don't tell me Captain America's wimping out because of some dandelions."

" _These_ ," Steve gestures emphatically, "are monsters. Genetically enhanced super weeds. That I have been digging out of the ground for an hour in a hundred degree weather for your neighbor."

"And Mrs. Gunderson appreciates your efforts." Sam smiles brightly, shielding his eyes with a gloved hand to look over at Steve. Mrs. Gunderson was in fact a very kind woman whose medical issues kept her out of her house for almost a year, and while her nephew came over once a week to dust and vacuum her home during that time, he never touched the yard, which was now overrun with genuinely scary weeds. Some had to be topping five feet. Since moving back, she wasn’t able to tame them herself and the HOA notices were piling up, and thus: the heat, the sweat, the whining.

Steve stabs the ground with his trowel, dragging every last root from the dirt. When they finish, Mrs. Gunderson’s front yard will be a mirror image of Sam’s, though hers will have significantly more yellow azaleas, her favorite.

“Trust me, I’ve noticed.” Mrs. Gunderson was eighty-four and an outrageous flirt towards them both.

Sam laughs, the sharp sound breaking the stillness of the spring air and cracking open something inside Steve--that pleasant, warm, buzzing feeling he sometimes got around Sam--spilling out and spreading from the knot in his throat to the tips of his toes.

He shakes his head and turns back to the weeds, still grinning, but Steve doesn’t look away. Sam's tank top pulled against his back muscles, and sweat shines on his skin, a few distinct droplets rolling from temple to jaw, down his neck. Steve clears his throat suddenly, bracing himself back over the ground and attacking the weeds with a new vengeance, blushing and trying to convince himself he’s gotten heat stroke or something.

They finish their work in comfortable silence, but Steve can’t shake the strange flipping feeling in his gut. Mrs. Gunderson shuffles them into her tiny kitchen, pressing cool glasses of lemonade into their hands and cracks a few salacious jokes about their disastrously dirty appearance.

As she sets up the table with plates of huge sandwiches and chips, Sam clinks his already half-empty glass against Steve's completely empty one, leaning back against the counter, his shoulder sticking to Steve's. It should been kind of gross and uncomfortable, skin overheated from the sun and slick with sweat, but Steve just leans into the contact.

"Watch out," Sam says, voice dropping to a whisper. Steve inclines his head, feeling the brush of Sam's breath against his ear. "She’s big into collectables. Stay here too long and I think she'll ask you to sign some of her old comics."

"I'm so hungry I think I'd sign just about anything for a bite of that sandwich."

Sam pulls away, snorting into his glass. Steve smiles and crunches an ice cube, that warm feeling filling him up again.

Mrs. Gunderson declares the table and food ready. Sam bounds forward, grinning and thanking her again and Steve's whole stomach drops to floor and he inhales, the remaining bit of the ice cube sucked back into his throat. He coughs, turns, refills his glass. Clenches and unclenches his hands, staring at the pitcher of lemonade like maybe it has all the answers.

"Oh." Steve says.

Oh.

-

"What's wrong?" Natasha asks, her mouth set in a firm line, legs pinning Steve to the mat.

"Nothing," he mutters.

She lifts an eyebrow, and doesn’t break the hold she has him in. They lay there tangled together for a few beats, staring stubbornly at each other, until Steve breaks with a loud sigh.

He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and studies the smooth, gray ceiling of the gym. "I think it’s… serious. With Sam.”

"Yes," she says slowly. "You live with him."

"No, I mean I--" He squeezes his eyes shut and smacks his head down on the mat with an irritated huff, hating how juvenile he feels. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." Natasha slides off him when he tests her hold, but puts a hand on his arm before he can get up to leave. He stills, his knees brought to his chest, fiddling with a loose string on his sweats as she folds her legs under her.

"You love him?" She phrases it as though it could be a question, but her tone is matter-of-fact.

Steve watches the ceiling for clues. “He’s my best friend.” It’s still strange to say that about anyone expect Bucky, who is figuring out his own shit halfway across the world and still somehow occupies half of all of Steve’s thoughts, an annoying voice in the back of his head reminding him to stop what he’s doing when he’s being an idiot. It’s more often than he’d like.

Natasha stares, inscrutable. "Have you liked men before?"

She says it so plainly. It’s a new world, a better world if still imperfect, and still a thrill runs through him at her brazenness. "Yes. But not… like this." He was in love with Peggy; a piece of him will always be in love with Peggy. And he’d started to believe, to assume, that he would just always have that love that could have been. That nothing new would find him; that nothing new could. And then--

Natasha doesn’t smile, but she tilts her head and looks at him with that piercing gaze she has, and pats him on the arm, not unlike he’s seen her do to her cat. “You’re an idiot. You should talk to him.”

Steve glares, betrayed. “This is not the pep talk I was looking for.”

“Go to Stark for your coddling, then.” They stare at one another for a frosty moment; then, at the same time, crack a grin and the tension melts into easy banter and then they’re sparring and Steve breaks her holds more times than not.

-

"I think they gave me too many drugs," Sam says from his position on top of the couch, which is delicately covered with dishes and bowls.

"Huh," Steve says. He drops his keys in the dish by the door, and approaches Sam slowly. "How bout you come down from there?"

Sam sits down on the one cushion not covered in dinnerware, crinkling a bag of frozen dumplings in his hand. "For my ankle," he says. Steve carefully extracts it from him, pulls the coffee table forward, and lifts Sam's swollen right ankle up onto a pillow. He swaps the dumplings out for an actual ice pack, and brings back a glass of water for Sam as well, which Sam downs in a few gulps. He's still slightly upset that Sam took down a group of fascists all by himself, not least because it's the most worthy fight Steve's heard of in months, but he can't blame Sam for the impulsive decision to take them on by himself--he's not a complete hypocrite. Still, his care-taking duties are not going well; he'd left for fifteen minutes to buy ingredients for soup, expecting to find Sam napping on the couch when he returned.

"So I have a secret." Steve is collecting the dishes from the floor and couch but looks up at Sam at his words. He didn't even realize they owned this many bowls. "I'm kind of a lightweight when it comes to pain meds."

"Really," says Steve, dry as dust.

Sam's face breaks into a huge grin. "I still think they gave me too much, though. Just a sprained ankle, some busted ribs. Few bumps and bruises."

Sam's face is varying shades of purple and he has a taped up cut over his eyebrow, though he seems to be feeling _great_. "I'm sure they did. Come on, time to sleep it off." Steve hovers a moment, biting his lip as he considered the easiest mode of transport. It takes him a couple seconds of deliberation before he sighs and fits his arms under Sam's knees and back, lifting him up smoothly.

"Am I being bridal carried by Captain America?" Sam asks, staring at Steve very seriously. Steve hums, not thinking about the smell of Sam so close, the heat and weight of him in Steve’s arms, his dark eyes swimming with affection as he stares up at Steve. He swings Sam past a door frame, not thinking of any of that. "Captain. Caaaptain. Keptin. Ki-ep-tin." Sam laughs, suddenly, squirming in Steve's arms. He reaches up with his index finger and squishes the point of Steve's nose. "Keptin!" he says, and then let out an outrageous giggle.

Steve sets him down on the bed as Sam shakes with tiny, hiccuping laughs. His drug-induced hysteria is, objectively, adorable. Steve can’t control his grin as he just watches him for a moment. Sam's hand shoots out and paws at his arm.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says, tugging Steve closer and closer until Steve is kneeled beside the bed, their faces inches apart. Sam takes another minute to compose himself, and leans in, mouth twitching and pressing together tightly. He touches his finger gently to Steve's nose again and whispers, "There, fixed it," and immediately collapses into sleep.

Steve drops his head to the sheets to hide his ridiculous grin, clenching his hands by his sides as his heart swells in his chest.

He slips out, gathering water and extra pillows. When he returns, Sam is still sleeping soundly, drooling a little on Steve's pillow. It’s cute and a little gross at once.

"Fuck." Steve rubs his eyes, then looks at the man in his bed. Something soft and aching spread through him at the sight. _Fuck_.

-

from: Natasha

**i wrote you a haiku**

**steve and sam are cute**  
**they both love punching nazis**  
**have sex already**

from: Steve

**I’m blocking your number.**

-

“Did I say anything weird last night?” Sam asks, over cereal. He looks exhausted in the morning light, hobbling around on his injured ankle. Steve wants to offer to carry him everywhere; offer to make those who hurt him suffer, offer to tend to his every wound and whim for as long as he’d like. He swallows those thoughts before speaking.

“Nope.” The cereal is grainy, only a little sweet. Sam drizzles honey over his bowl, not looking up.

-

Mrs. Gunderson’s yard is flowering and the basil in their plot is coming in nicely, so much so they decide to make a meal of it. Big pasta dish drenched in olive oil, parmesan, black pepper. Fresh basil like candied leaves. The sun dips low outside. Sam lights some old, half-burned candles, settling in with Steve at the counter. They eat with _Trouble Man_ spilling softly from the TV speakers.

Just as Steve is going to serve them seconds, Sam says, “So. I was thinking, maybe we should start house hunting for you?”

“Oh.” The good food, company, and music that fed his soul so warmly disappear in an instant. In their place, he is filled with ice; an uncomfortable, familiar dread.

Sam stares, upset, at his plate, scraping his fork over a noodle. “Just, maybe it’s time. Don’t want to keep you from starting your life.”

“What?”

“You know. It’s been nice, having you here. But it’s not… on the road it was out of necessity, and I don’t want you to think you… that you have to stay. That I need you to. I want you to be happy, Steve.”

“Oh,” says Steve, again, realization forming like a flowerbud in the base of his mind. Natasha’s words echo the Bucky in his brain. And he faces the terrifying thing head on, what some might take for bravery all stupid, reckless hope: he turns completely to face Sam, studying his perfect, golden profile in the candlelight until Sam meets his eyes, and he says, “What if it’s you that makes me happy?”

A whole host of things happen in the span of a second, maybe two. Sam blinks, a stutter to his movements like his whole thought process has slammed to a halt. He looks Steve up and down. He studies his face for sincerity. He parts his lips in quiet surprise, the start of a smile.

It’s his turn to say, “... Oh.” And the smile blooms fully. Steve reaches for Sam just as he does the same. Their hands tangle. Their heads angle. He pauses. “Are you sure?”

“To be honest, Sam, I fucking hate gardening.” Steve grins at Sam small, huffed laugh. “And I really want to stay."

“Okay then,” says Sam, and they don’t get to do the dishes until very late the next day.

-

Steve stays, and stays. And Sam welcomes him.

-

His favorite thing about the 21st century, Steve has decided, are: the parades.

He isn’t sure when or how he's lost his shirt, only that he has. Nobody seems to mind though. The opposite actually.

Sam had painted his face in three large, vertical stripes of red, white, and blue. His outfit is outrageously bright and mesh. He’s wearing a fanny pack and flying a little rainbow flag with one hand, holding Steve’s hand with the other. Steve tries to think of a moment he felt safer, more whole or complete. Then Sam kisses him, and it burns bright in his memory.

“So?” asks Sam, standing in the middle of the street, waiting. Pride fireworks around them; color and sound all a declaration. _Here I am. Here we are._

Steve squeezes Sam’s hand. _Here we are._ “It’s not so bad.”

“That’s only because I’ve protected you from the literal Captain Gaymerica fanclub that wanted you on their float.”

“Oh? Doesn’t sound so bad.” Steve flexes, a little, goofily. It’s embarrassing and Sam laughs at him delightfully.

“Oh, please. Shoulda known it would go to your head. I hope you know I’m hot shit, too, here. I _fly_ , okay? I got propositioned twenty times when I went to the bathroom.”

Steve laughs, reeling Sam in closer, says, "I better watch out then, huh?"

"Nah, I don't think so." Steve presses a smiling kiss to Sam’s neck. "I'm pretty stuck on you, sad to say."

"Sad to say?" Steve pulls back far enough to give Sam a full view of his dry expression.

"Yeah. I mean look at me, I'm in the prime of my life. And I decide to shack up with someone more than triple my age? A damn shame."

"Triple? Think you're being a bit generous..."

“Embrace your nonagenarian-ism, Steve.”

“Wasn’t talking ’bout me.”

"Oh, fuck you." Sam says, his grin wide and beautiful and absolutely breathtaking. Because of that, its health hazard effects, and definitely no other reason, Steve fits his hands on Sam's waist and steals his smile with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> title from trouble man. god i fxkingfslfdgj love these fools. just want their lives to be so easy and loving. anyway, i have so many projects in my drafts and i'm trying to just post them and clear them out of the way so that's why this is literally nothing but Soft Boys In Love  
> p l s talk to me about samsteve forever [tumblor](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/)


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